CHAPTER III.
"KING CANUTE" COMES BACK.
"Care to our coffin adds a nail no doubt. And every grin, so merry, draws one out."
JOHN WALCOT.
"And Nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, O; Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, And then she made the lasses, O."
BURNS.
As the soft September twilight stole over the room, the girls becamemore silent. Waveney seemed buried in thought, and Mollie, tired outwith laughing, nestled against her comfortably, and very nearly went tosleep. But she was roused effectually by Waveney's next speech.
"Sweetheart"--her pet name for Mollie--"I am going to make youmiserable, I am afraid, but I have been telling myself all day long thatwe must face the situation. If father does not get a good price for hispicture, what are we to do?"
"But he must sell it," returned Mollie, in a distressed voice. "Barkeris getting disagreeable about his bill, and his man says nasty things toAnn when he leaves the meat. And we owe Chandler for two tons of coal."
"Yes, I know;" and Waveney sighed heavily. "Those two tons have been onmy mind all day."
"You poor dear, no wonder you looked tired. Ah, how hateful and mean itis to be poor! Ah, you are not as wicked and rebellious as I am, Wave. Isometimes cry with the longing for the pretty things other girls have. Icannot resign myself to the idea of being shabby and pinched andcareworn all my life long. If this goes on we shall be old women beforeour time; when I am ordering dinner I feel nearly a hundred."
Waveney stroked the glossy brown head that rested against her shoulder,but made no other answer: she was thinking how she could best break someunwelcome news to Mollie. Mollie was emotional, and cried easily, andher father always hated to see one of his girls unhappy. "Father wouldcut the moon up into little pieces and give them to us, if he could,"she thought; "nothing is too good for us. But when Mollie frets he takesit so to heart. Oh dear, if only doing one's duty were made easier; butthere is no 'learning or reading without tears' in the Handbook ofLife;" and then she set her little white teeth together firmly, as achild does when some nauseous medicine is offered.
"Mollie, dear, I cannot keep it back any longer--it makes me miserableto have a secret from you. I have been to Harley Street to-day, andtalked to Miss Warburton, and she has something on her books that islikely to suit me."
Then the sob she dreaded to hear rose to poor Mollie's lips.
"Ah, Wave, you can't really mean it! This is worst of all. It ispositively dreadful. How am I to live without you? And father, and Noel,what are they to do?" and here the tears rolled down her face; butWaveney, who had been schooling herself all day, refused to be movedfrom her stoicism.
"Mollie, please listen to me. It is childish to cry. Do you remember ourlast talk--the one we had in the Lime Walk, and how we agreed that wemust do all we could to help father!"
"But I do help him," returned Mollie, in a woe-begone voice. "I keep thehouse and mend things, and look after that stupid, clumsy Ann; and thefine-art publishers seem to like my little drawings, and I am never idlefor a single instant."
"No, darling, you put us all to shame. Do you think I am findingfault with you? But you must not do it all, that is just it; andas Mrs. Addison no longer requires me, I must look out for anothersituation"--for during the past year Waveney had acted as secretary to alady living near them in Cheyne Walk. It had only been a morningengagement, and the pay had not been much, but Waveney, and Mollie too,had found immense pleasure in spending the scanty earnings.
"Of course, I know you must do something," returned Mollie, ratherirritably, for even her sweet nature resented the idea of losing Waveneyas an insufferable injury; "but you might find something in Chelsea."
"No, dear," returned Waveney, gently. "I have tried, over and overagain, and I can find nothing suitable. I cannot teach--I have neverbeen educated for a governess; and no one near us seems to want asecretary or reader, or companion."
"Are you quite sure of that, Waveney?"
"Quite sure. I have been wasting two whole months waiting for somethingto turn up, so this morning I made up my mind that I would see MissWarburton. She was so nice, Mollie. She is such a dear woman; a littlequick and decided in her manner--what some people would call abrupt--butwhen she gets interested in a person she is really quite soft and kind.She heard all I had to say, asked me a few questions, and then turned toher book.
"'It is rather a lucky chance you came in this morning, Miss Ward,' shesaid, 'for a lady who called yesterday is in want of a young person whocan read well.' And then she explained to me that this lady's sister wastroubled at times with some weakness in her eyes that prevented her fromreading to herself, especially of an evening, and that they requiredsome pleasant, ladylike girl, who would make herself useful in littleways."
"And the name, Waveney?"
"The name is Harford, and they live at the 'Red House,' Erpingham. Theyare very nice people, but at the present moment she is staying with somefriends in Berkeley Square, and she will interview me there."
"Oh, dear, you speak as though everything were settled."
"No, indeed, no such luck. Miss Warburton was very kind, verysympathetic, and anxious to help me; but she advised me not to set myheart on it for fear I should be disappointed. 'Miss Harford may thinkyou too young,--yes, I know,' as I was about to protest indignantly atthis,--'you are really nineteen, but no one would think you were overseventeen.' Isn't it humiliating, Mollie, that strangers will alwaysthink I am a child? If only my hair would grow and not curl over my headin this absurd way. People always take you for the eldest." "And youare to see Miss Harford to-morrow?"
"Yes, dear; and you must get Noel to throw another old shoe after me forluck." Then her lip trembled and her eyes grew misty.
"Dear, do not make it harder for me than you can help. Don't you knowhow I hate to leave my old Sweetheart? I would rather stay at home andlive on bread and water than fare sumptuously in other folks' houses; Ifeel as though I should die with home-sickness and _ennui_. Oh, it is nocrying matter, I assure you; it is the rack and the thumb-screw and theburning faggots all in one, and if you want a new martyr for thecalendar, and have any spare halos on hand, I am your woman." And then,of course, Mollie did as she was expected to do, left off crying andbegan to laugh in the manner that often made her father call her "hiswild Irish girl." And, indeed, there was something very Irish inMollie's mercurial and impressionable temperament.
The next minute their attention was attracted by strange noises frombelow.
Something heavy was being dragged along the passage, accompanied byextraordinary sibilant sounds, resembling the swishing and hissing of anostler rubbing down a horse. Both the girls seemed to recognise thesounds, for Waveney frowned and bit her lip, and Mollie said, in atroubled tone,--
"Oh, it is poor old 'Canute' come back;" and then they ran into thepassage and looked over the balusters. Noel and a little fair man in ashabby velveteen coat were hauling a large picture between them, withmuch apparent difficulty. One end had got jammed in the narrowstaircase, and Noel's encouraging "swishes" and "Whoa, there--steady,old man! Keep your pecker up, and don't kick over the traces," mighthave been addressed to a skittish mare. Then he looked up and winked athis sisters, and almost fell backwards in his attempt to feign excessivejoy.
"Hurrah! three cheers! Here we are again--large as life, and as heavy asthe fat woman in Mrs. Jarley's wax-works. But what's the odds as long asyou are happy, as the lobster said as he walked into the pot."
"Hold your tongue, Noel," returned his father, good-naturedly. "It isyour fault the confounded thing has got wedged. Keep it straight, and weshall manage it well enough;" and then he looked up at the two facesabove him.
"There you are, my darlings," he said, nodding to them.
"You see I am bringing our old friend back; we will have him up directlyif only this young jackanapes will leave off his monkey tri
cks." Andthen in a singularly sweet tenor voice he chanted,--
"You hear that boy laughing? You think it is fun, But the angels laugh too at the good he has done. The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all."
"Oliver Wendell Holmes," whispered Mollie; but Waveney made no answer;she only ran down a few steps and gallantly put her shoulder to thewheel, and after a few more tugs "King Canute" was safely landed in thestudio, where Noel executed a war-dance round him, with many a wildwhoop, after the manner of Redskins.
"Father, dear," whispered Mollie, in a delightfully coaxing voice, "sitdown on Grumps while I make your coffee;" for the Ward family, beingsomewhat original, gave queer names to their belongings; and since theywere children the old couch had been called "Grumps," tired hands andtired limbs and aching hearts always finding it a comfortable refuge.
"So I will, dear," returned Mr. Ward; and then both the girls hung abouthim and kissed him, and Mollie brushed back his hair, and put a rose inhis buttonhole; but Waveney only sat down beside him and held his handsilently.
There was no difficulty in discovering where Noel got his good looks. Inhis youth Everard Ward had been considered so handsome that artists hadimplored him to sit to them; and for many years well-principled heads ofgirls' colleges feared to engage him as drawing-master.
And even now, in spite of the tired eyes and careworn expression, andthe haggardness brought on by the tension of over-work and late hours,the face was almost perfect, only the fair hair had worn off theforehead and was becoming a little grey--"pepper and salt," Molliecalled it. But the thing that struck strangers most was his air ofrefinement, in spite of his shabby coat and old hat; no one could denythat he was a gentleman; and in this they were right.
Everard Ward was a man who if he had mixed in society would have mademany friends. In the old days he had been dearly loved and greatlyadmired; but just when his prospects were brightest and the futureseemed gilded with success, he suddenly took the bit between his teethand bolted--not down hill; his mother's sweet memory and his owndignity prevented that--but across country, down side roads that had nothoroughfare, and which landed him in bogs of difficulty.
For in spite of his soft heart and easy good-nature Everard was alwaysoffending people; his wealthy godfather, for example, when he refused totake orders and to be inducted into a family living; and again his soleremaining relative, an uncle, who wished him to go into the War Office.
"Life is an awful muddle," he would say sometimes; but in reality hemade his own difficulties. His last act of youthful madness was when heleft the Stock Exchange, where an old friend of his father had given hima berth, and had joined a set of young artistic Bohemians.
At that time he was supposed by his friends to be on the brink of anengagement to an heiress, he had seemed warmly attached to her, until ata ball he met Dorothy Sinclair, and fell desperately in love with her.
This was his crowning act of madness; and when he married her hisfriends shook their heads disapprovingly, and said to each other thatthat fool of a Ward had done for himself now. Why, the fellow must beimbecile to throw away a fortune and a good sort of woman like that, tomarry a pretty little girl, without a penny for her dower!
And, indeed, though Dorothy was a lovely young creature, and as good andlovable as her own Mollie, she was the last woman Everard ought to havemarried.
The heiress would have made a man of him, and he would have spent hermoney royally and been the best of husbands to her; but Dorothy lackedbackbone. She was one of those soft, weak women who need a strong arm tolean upon.
And so, when the children came, and the cold, cold blast of adversitybegan to blow upon them; when Everard could not sell his pictures, andpoverty stared them in the face;--then she lost heart and courage.
"Everard, dearest, I have not been the right wife for you," she saidonce; for that long, fatal illness taught her many things. "Oh, I see itall so much more clearly now. I have disheartened you when you neededencouragement, and when our troubles came I did not bear them well."
"You have been the sweetest wife in the world to me," was his answer;and then Dorothy had smiled at him well pleased. Yes, he had been hertrue lover, and he was her lover to the last; and when she died, leavingthree young children to his care, Everard Ward mourned for her as trulyas any man could do.
Those were terrible years for him that followed his wife's death; histwin girls were only ten years old, and Noel a pale-faced urchin offive.
He never quite knew how he lived through them, but necessity goaded himto exertion. He worked doggedly all day long, coming home whenever itwas possible to take his meals with the children. Sometimes somekind-hearted schoolmistress would tell him to bring one of his littlegirls with him, and this was always a red-letter day for Waveney andMollie, for the poor little things led a dull life until Everard wasable to send them to day-school; and after that they were quite happy.
He used to watch them sometimes as they went down the street with theirsatchel of books. Waveney would be dancing along like a fairy child,with little springy jumps and bounds, as though the sunshine intoxicatedher, and Mollie would hurry after her, limping and lurching in herhaste, with her golden brown hair streaming over her shoulders, and hersweet, innocent face lifted smilingly to every passer-by.
"My sweet Moll, she is her mother's image," Everard would say tohimself, and his eyes would be a little dim; for, with all his faultsand troubles and idiosyncrasies, no father was more devoted. His twindaughters were the joy and pride of his heart. When he came home atnight, tired out with a long day's work, the very sound of their voicesas he put the latch-key in the door seemed to refresh and invigoratehim.
"Here's dad! here's dear old dad!" they would cry, running out to meethim; and then they would kiss and cuddle him, and purr over him likewarm, soft young kittens. Noel would pull off his boots and bring himhis slippers, and then "Grumps" would be dragged up to the fire, and Annwould be ordered to bring up the tea quick, and then they would all waiton him as though he were a decrepit old man; and Noel, who was ahumorist even at that early age, would pretend to be a waiter, and say,"Yessir," and "No, sir," and "Next thing, sir," with an old rag of atowel on his arm to represent a napkin.
"I saw Ward the other evening," a friend of his said one day to a lady;"he teaches drawing at Welbeck College, where I take the literatureclasses, so I often see him; and one evening he took me home with himto Cleveland Terrace. Poor old Ward! he was not cut out for a drawingmaster; he was always a bit flighty and full of whimsies, and used tofly his kite too high in the old days; but he made a fool of himself,you know, with that unlucky marriage."
"Indeed," returned the lady, quietly.
"Ah, well! that is all ancient history. He has made his bed, poorfellow, and must just lie on it; but I do so hate seeing a man's careermarred, especially if he is a good sort, like Ward!"
"And you went home with him?" observed his hearer, in the same quiettone.
"Yes; and upon my word it was really a pretty little family picture.There was Ward, looking like a sleepy Adonis with his fair hair rumpledall over his head, and two sweet little girls hanging on each arm, andcooing over him; and that fine boy of his lying on the rug with apicture. I declare my snug bachelor rooms looked quite dull that night."
When anything ailed one of the twins, Everard's misery would havetouched the most stony heart. When Mollie had measles, he nursed hernight and day, and when Waveney and Noel also sickened, he was so wornout that if a kindly friend had not come to his assistance, he wouldsoon have been on a sick-bed.
Happily it was holiday time, and there were no schools or classes; MissMartin was a governess herself, but with the divine self-abnegation of agood-hearted woman she gave up a pleasant visit to a country house tohelp poor Mr. Ward--women were always doing that sort of thing forEverard Ward. But her little patients gave her a great deal of trouble.
Mollie cried and would not take her medicin
e from anyone but father, andWaveney was pettish; but Noel was the worst of all.
Miss Martin was plain-featured, and wore spectacles, and Noel, whoinherited his father's love of beauty, objected to her strongly. "Goaway," he said, fretfully; "we don't want no frights in goggles;" and hebegan to roar so lustily that Everard was roused from his sleep andcame, pale and weary and dishevelled, to expostulate with his son andheir.
But Noel, who was feverish and uncomfortable, repeated his offence.
"We don't want no frights here, dad. Tell her to go."
"For shame, Noel," returned his father, sternly. "I am quite shocked atyou. This kind lady has come to help us; and don't you know, my boy,that to a gentleman all women are beautiful?"
"Please don't scold him, Mr. Ward," returned Miss Martin,good-naturedly; but her sallow face was a little flushed. "Noel and Iwill soon be good friends; it is only the fever makes him fractious."And as tact and good temper generally win the day, the children soon gotvery fond of their dear Marty, as they called her; and as they grew upshe became their most valued friend and adviser until her death.
It was Miss Martin whose sensible arguments overcame Everard's rootedaversion to the idea of his girls working.
"As long as I live I will work for them," he would say; but Miss Martinstuck to her point gallantly.
"Life is so uncertain, Mr. Ward. An accident any day might prevent youfrom earning your bread--you will forgive me for speaking plainly. Letthem work while they are young." But though Everard owned himselfconvinced by her arguments, it was a bitter day to him when Waveneybecame Mrs. Addison's secretary.
"Father would cut the moon up in little bits and give them to us,"Waveney had said to herself. And, indeed, to the fond, foolish fellow,no gift could have been too precious for those cherished darlings of hisheart.
Everard always told people that he loved them just alike, and hehonestly thought so; and yet, if Waveney's finger ached, it seemed topain him all over; and all the world knows what that means!